Millennial War Cry

Let’s talk about Earth, and a generation built for self-destruction.

Kids grow up on speed prescribed by their governments, all socializing is over the internet, and the news praises tyrants (though that’s nothing new).

Society precariously balances on a web of mass-delusions.

Bought and ruled by money, we cower silently in fear and count the comforts of our conformity.

Knowing we will lose them to eventuality.

The world’s coming apart, and it’s old fashioned to know how to build anything.

I don’t know everything, but someone must say it: “This isn’t a society worth adjusting to, this isn’t sincerity or something we should cater to.  We are what we do, and we’ve done little except consume.”

We don’t know what we are or what we’re meant to be.  Millennials, a generation of souls lost to technology.  Lost to denial, indifference, and luxury.

Our denial won’t live much longer.  Our choice is Arab Spring of the mind, or 1980.

Yet indifference is our propriety.

We are the generation of dissociation.

Every Millennial I know who has experienced “intimacy” has PTSD

because of how little we were taught about consent, except how much it’s mocked on TV.

We can’t fix blind, but disabled is not broken.  It just needs to be spoken.

(But why speak when no one will listen?)

It’s time to unleash from our prison.

Unleash the unloved, unkempt, unheeded.  Now is the time we’re most needed.

So I will speak, and you will hate me for it, but you too will live a moment and know what it’s like to be abhorred for it, for your words and deeds and dreams and beliefs.

Belief is relative to the time you give to it, and the things you see.  Some laws you can’t escape, but the rest you create.

It’s time.

Your choice:

Unbind

From millennia of lies and become.

Do,

Or die having never done.

Write

 

Writing saved my life.

When I was young I had no one to talk to, because no one spoke my language.  One parent always worked, and another decided I was too inconvenient to remain in the state with.  I didn’t make friends easily, if at all.  I had too much to talk about that no one my age could relate to.

I was obsessed with reading, and had a higher verbal I.Q. than most of my peers and some of my instructors.  That’s not bragging, I was tested and measured at 132.

I had a habit of telling tall tales, and embellishing on reality until it became something more.  When students were given assignments to write stories, mine stood out for clarity and scope.

I’ve just found out I’ve had PTSD for most of my life, as a child and adult.  It had gone undocumented, untreated, and ignored for twenty years.  It’s no wonder I couldn’t make friends.  I couldn’t trust or relate.  I would extend too much of myself or none at all.  Little things could make me shut the door on friendships quickly and permanently.

I’ve had one lifelong friend: the English language.  I couldn’t call my mind a friend, despite all the stories it gave me.  I became a writer because I spent most of my life disassociating.  I was as far away from my life and body as a human being could get, which explains why real people could rarely reach me.

Writing was my healthiest method of disassociation, and I highly recommend it.  I found other ways that weren’t so healthy, but we’re not going to go into that.

Writing gave me a goal.

I loved seeing my work published for the first time when I was seventeen.  Throughout my early twenties, even when in the midst of making my worst decisions, experiencing publication and receiving reviews for the only work I took real pride in gave me something to look forward to when I was otherwise mentally absent.  I disassociated from my work and relationships, but when I was alone, I lived.  I lived on paper.  I lived online…

…even when living felt impossible.

For the last few years I’ve experienced suicidal ideation.  I reached a point where I could no longer function without help.  My illness became apparent to those around me, especially as I tried to engage in full time school and full time work.  I was weighted with exhaustion, my moods swung, and I forgot everything.  I could no longer take care of myself.  My mind drifted repeatedly to the idea of what it would be like to truly rest – to not worry, not rush, not endure.

In those times, writing classes helped.  It gave me gaps in time to focus on and explore my thoughts, feelings, imaginings, and connections.  For a few years I had lost the habit of writing every day because of all my work.  I had to squeeze it back in spaces I could fit it.  Part of what held me together this semester was a Writing for Media class, where I learned script format.  I could only write horror and tragedy at first, but my professor pushed me by assigning me a comedy.  It was a dark comedy, because that’s all I could do at the time, but it kept me engaged in my studies through the agonizingly slow process of the psychological evaluation my school’s Student Disability Service arranged.

I now have my official diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and people at my school and work suddenly treat me better than I remember.  It makes me wonder why kindness and consideration aren’t used as preventative measures.  Why is it only present as policy when someone is already ill?

I have accommodations from the school and a mediator for meetings to help reduce my stress and anxiety.  That doesn’t make me magically optimistic.  I’m not particularly trusting of sudden kindness.  I also don’t know if I can pay my rent, if I’ll graduate, or if I’ll find employment that offers a living wage.

I just know that even if I live under a bridge, I’ll write.  I write because it reminds me there’s something that fills the shell I live in.  It makes me grateful for my appendages and mind.  It taught me courage when I felt robbed of it, and redefines me daily when the world tries to write me into unfit roles.

If you ever feel alone, or feel like you have no one in the world to talk to, try writing.  I highly recommend it.

On the Precipice of March

On the edge and looking over.  There’s a new name for another of the same but slightly different.

Forward.

I’m reaching the crest where I start to mark time with gray hairs and lost teeth.

I forgot how to look forward, forgot how to be me.

I traded images and faces, names, morphed with color of hair and strategy of game.

Beware, Self is something much easier to lose than find again.

 

 

Writing Prompt: Love at First Smell

TC180’s random writing prompts.

Love at first smell.

150 word max. Poems, fiction, or non-fiction.

 

If at least 10 people participate, the chosen winner gets a colorful Jpeg award image to put on their social media or blog.  It will likely be cheesy.

Leave your entry in the comments or leave a link to it.

It’s Noon-Thirty

…or something.

Biology class is imminent, though so is the fact that I’ll be a few minutes late.  I’ve attended my classes responsibly, for the most part.  I’m a bit cocky because I’ve been cutting class since the 2nd grade and still passing…

…not just passing, but excelling beyond my peers in every standardized test.

Maybe it does make me cocky…too cocky.  I haven’t exactly passed every college class.

I did OK on the lab practical…fairly sure I passed, but I don’t like it when it’s a mystery, a surprise I’m waiting for.  I’ve done much better on every other exam so far.

I don’t know why I’m telling this to the internet as if it cares.

Is it sad that I would love time to write fanfiction again?  Then again, I love the job that has eaten every available hour outside of classes between noon and 10pm.  I love assembling the dead, putting their pieces back in place and learning their stories.

I’ve finished a baby deer skull and two human craniums just yesterday…

Dear online diary, forgive me for being late to class to tell you everything.

Press on

Press out

down about the dust

make the path

 

Thorns snag

burrs hitchhike

trying to find the sun.

 

I’ve only ever run.

Now a patch of ground

calls.

 

It holds a lake

where I can see my heart glow

in its reflection.

 

Before, I’ve seen only clouds,

lightning

 

I’ve seen only

a murky surface

oiled slick and swirling

 

How am I to believe in this glow?

A whole universe, waiting to grow.

 

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